


The Hunt

by Tanaqui



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-24
Updated: 2009-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-28 02:02:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanaqui/pseuds/Tanaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Rangers of Ithilien are commanded to slay all they find within the borders of that land without the leave of the Lord of Gondor. But sometimes the hunters become the hunted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Twisting The Twilight Zone](http://community.livejournal.com/enter_tzone) challenge. Thanks to my betas, Scribbler and Elena Tiriel.

Faramir crouched with his back against a rock, trying to calm his ragged breathing. Despite the chill in the air, sweat trickled down his face under his mask, and his undershirt stuck to his back. Fear sharpened his senses as he listened to the harsh cries not a stone's cast away where the orcs called to each other as they played a deadly game of hide-and-seek with Faramir's patrol.

Scanning the surrounding hills for landmarks, Faramir guessed they were three miles or more south of where the orc-band had ambushed them. He had been leading the patrol back from one of the Rangers' rare errands to the Morannon to observe what they could of the Enemy's defences, the movement of troops, the transport of goods from the East or the chance arrival or departure of messengers on any of the roads that ran to the Black Gate.

The journey there and back was always a risky venture, an unwelcome choice between moving swiftly through the narrows around the northern shoulder of the Ephel Dúath or travelling the scree-strewn slopes that ran away to the river. The first offered thin cover amongst the scrubland in the valleys, but the Dark Lord's servants often roamed along the old road and made forays into the lands to either side. The second meant long days picking a careful trail amongst the rocks. The Enemy's servants rarely trod here, but high overhead, flocks of great crows wheeled, seeking any sign of movement below.

There had been many such birds overhead as they had begun the journey south – perhaps the Dark Lord sensed unfriendly eyes – and he had chosen the route through the valley. Perhaps it was mere ill fortune that orcs had been roaming the slopes of the Ephel Dúath, or perhaps it was another sign of the Enemy's watchfulness. No matter: the orcs had picked up their scent and – despite the weak late afternoon sun that pierced the lowering clouds from time to time – had come hollering down the valley side towards them.

No hope in trying to lie hid: the orcs were heading straight for them. Glancing to either side to confirm the position of each of his men, Faramir gave his orders. "Hathaldir, cover fire!" He had slipped his bow from where it hung at his back as he spoke and begun stringing it. "The rest, retreat. High ground and hold."

The string caught the notch and he reached for an arrow, nocked it and sighted on the foremost orc. His first arrow caught the orc in the shoulder and rocked it backwards for a moment before it surged forwards again. Behind him, he could hear the rattle of pebbles as his men scrambled up the rocky slope. His second arrow took the lead orc in the chest and this time it stumbled and fell. Beside him, Hathaldir had another down.

Two of the orcs halted and began returning fire, but their small bows lacked the range to reach the Rangers. After a couple of volleys, they realised their arrows were dropping short – and more likely to take one of their own in the back. Ceasing fire, they surged forwards after their comrades.

Counting arrows, Faramir took a pace backwards in between each pair, halving the distance to the rocks by the time his last arrow left the string. Half the orcs were down, but a dozen or more still closed on them, only yards away now.

Faramir dropped his bow and pulled his sword, meeting the downward slash of a scimitar. Metal rang on metal as he turned the orc-blade aside. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see two more orcs approaching. He stepped backwards, giving himself room for a counter-thrust at his off-balance opponent. Even as he struck out to hamstring the orc – perhaps not the kind of heroic stroke the minstrels preferred to glorify, but rather more effective in the midst of battle – an arrow took one of the approaching orcs in the arm and it reeled backwards. Pulling his sword free from the howling orc, Faramir dropped to a crouch as a rain of arrows sped overhead, halting the orcs and sending them scrambling away.

Backing up further, he made sure he was out of the reach of any opponents before he turned and ran for the shelter of the rocks from where his men were peppering the retreating orc-band with arrows, trusting their aim was true enough not to take their patrol leader with a stray shaft.

Beyond bow-shot, the orcs gathered together, harsh voices raised in argument. Faramir guessed that their leader was among those who lay, still or twitching, amongst the low scrub, and there was some doubt about the chain of command. He took a moment to confirm that the rest of his patrol had made it to safety.

Erellont, Galdor and Ragnor still had arrows sighted on the milling group in the distance, while Hamalcar tended to a long gash on Hathaldir's arm where an orc-blade had caught him, wrapping a bandage around it to stem the bleeding. If the Valar were merciful, the blade had not been smeared with poison.

A shout drew Faramir's attention back to the orcs. He saw one of them cuff another to the ground, and the rest shrank back. He guessed the question of succession had been decided, and the brief respite was over.

With hand signals, he indicated that the patrol should divide in two, each grouping providing cover while the others retreated further into the stony outcrops.

By the third time they repeated the manoeuvre, they had managed to thin the orcs numbers a little, downing two more, but the pursuit continued. The orcs had at least grown more cautious, and now crept amongst the boulders, using them as cover to move close enough to use their own bows. Orc-arrows skittered amongst the rocks where the Rangers hunkered down, and Ragnor had taken a graze along the cheek, ripping his mask open.

Faramir, gasping from another dash across the treacherous terrain, quickly counted the arrows remaining to his comrades. Less than a handful between them, and soon there would be none left, and they would be unable to hold the orcs at bay. The only comfort was that the orcs seem to have already spent their ammunition; no more flights fell amongst his men. Yet soon battle would be joined at close quarters, and the Rangers were still outnumbered two to one.

Faramir cursed the orcs' persistence. Perhaps they sought vengeance for the fallen captain. Perhaps they dared not return to their captains without some trophy to explain their losses. Perhaps – this thought came to Faramir as he took a moment to snatch a mouthful of water from his flask, and he shuddered – the orcs' supplies ran low.

The sun was dropping quickly, but darkness would not aid them: indeed, the night-eyed orcs would have the advantage. They must outpace the pursuit, or make a stand soon.

As he pondered his choices, a rattle of pebbles gave him a moment's warning before a shape launched itself at him from one side. His dagger was out in an instant even as he twisted sideways to avoid the blade thrust at him. The orc crashed into him, but he tucked his shoulder and rolled, letting the foul creature's weight carry it past him. Cruel claws bit into his shoulder, but he carried on rolling, coming out atop his enemy. He thrust his dagger upwards and it bit deep. The orc thrashed underneath him for a moment, black blood spurting, before it went limp.

Faramir sat back, breathing hard while he furiously scanned his surroundings, pushing aside his anger at himself for the moment's inattention. Some of the orcs must have tried to outflank them – perhaps were even already behind them – and they were approaching the end game.

Even as he gathered his wits, another orc crashed down next to him from the rocks above, a green-feathered shaft in its throat. He whipped around at the sound of more pebbles behind, but it was only Ragnor scrambling to his side. "Sir?"

Faramir waved his concern away. There would be time enough for that – and thanks – later. If they survived. "How many left?"

"Ten, sir. That was our last arrow." Ragnor pointed at the broken-off shaft embedded in the fallen orc.

Faramir nodded and wearily reached forward to pull his dagger free. His hand closed around a stone as he steadied himself on the shifting scree – and hope flared within him.

"Out of arrows, but not weaponless." He gave Ragnor a grim smile and tossed the stone to him.

Ragnor frowned for a moment, and then his expression cleared and he nodded. A well-slung stone could be as deadly as a feathered barb. Though the Rangers carried no slings – they lacked stealth for a hunter who might himself be hunted– the orcs were close enough that it would not matter, and all the men had a good eye.

Gathering a half dozen stones that fitted well to the hand, Faramir worked his way forwards in the shelter of the rocks until he sighted on the nearest orc. Rising up, he let fly the first stone. It connected with the orc's iron helm with a satisfying clang, and the orc reeled backwards. Another stone followed, and another, each finding its mark until the orc managed to drag itself to shelter.

At Faramir's side, Ragnor was also meeting with success. Soon, a veritable rain of stones peppered anything that moved on the slope below as the other Rangers followed Faramir's lead. Moments later, with wails and curses, the orcs broke and ran. Faramir sent a final stone at their retreating backs and then dropped his head and breathed deeply, relief coursing through him.

Rolling onto his back, he looked up at the darkening sky, where the stars had begun to prick out: the Valacirca, and Menelvagor the Swordsman, and Gil-Estel, bringer of hope in ages past, Bright Eärendil, father of the father of his people, rising from the last of the Western glow.


End file.
